


Tell Your Plants I Love Them

by JustJReally



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gabriel is barely in this I promise, Human AU, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), just a whole lot of obliviousness, this is literally only rated 'T' because there's swearing and I wasn't sure where that fell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJReally/pseuds/JustJReally
Summary: Trying to get over Crowley by going on a date with someone else, Aziraphale reflected, was not a good plan.Agreeing to go on a date with Gabriel, of all people, was an even worse plan.In which Aziraphale is rescued from a terrible date by a knight in shining sunglasses.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 330





	Tell Your Plants I Love Them

Trying to get over Crowley by going on a date with someone else, Aziraphale reflected, was not a good plan.

Agreeing to go on a date with Gabriel, of all people, was an even worse plan.

Because now, not only has he been listening to Gabriel talk about himself for the past hour, and not only have other patrons in Eden’s Coffeeshop started throwing him sympathetic glances, he's also spent the past hour thinking about how nice it would be if he were here with Crowley instead, which is exactly the opposite of what this date was meant to achieve.

 _HELP ME,_ he texts Crowley, under the table. Gabriel does not notice.  
_This was a mistake_  
_I am going to die here_  
_Tell your plants I love them_

He’s not expecting a response; Crowley’s spending all afternoon meeting with some classmates about a group project. But before he can put his phone down, Crowley messages him, **Don’t you dare coddle my plants.**

 _It’s my last request, though_  
_He keeps trying to hold my hand while telling me how I can improve my grades_  
_He has not shut up about his GPA for the past five minutes_  
_This is awful_

But it must have been the threat to Crowley's plants that got his attention, because he doesn't respond. Aziraphale reluctantly turns his attention back to Gabriel, who has not paused in his monologue about himself, or even noticed that he'd lost his audience.

The slowest ten minutes of Aziraphale's life pass. He learns about Gabriel's internship in exhausting detail.[1] He wishes for the kitchen to catch fire, or an earthquake to occur, or Gabriel to spontaneously develop food poisoning. When the universe fails to aid him, he begins running through potential excuses to leave.

 _My roommate locked himself out, and I need to go rescue him?_ No, Gabriel might try to come with him. _My roommate, who’s been sick for the past week, you really don’t want to get near him, went out to buy himself cough drops, got lost on the way home, and then locked himself out?_ Could work. On the other hand, that had actually happened to Crowley two weeks ago, and it would be just his luck if Gabriel had somehow heard about it. _Look, I’m in love with my roommate, so this date was a really bad idea I’m just going to leave now,_ has the benefit of being honest, but also means baring his soul to Gabriel, of all people, so that one’s right out.

When Aziraphale tunes back into the monologue, Gabriel has moved on to talking about his workout routine, peppered with a few casually snide comments about Aziraphale’s appearance. Aziraphale begins to contemplate the pros and cons of throwing his cocoa in Gabriel’s face and leaving the building.[2] The pros are winning out when the coffeeshop door swings open so hard it slams into the wall. Aziraphale, along with everyone else in the room, looks up.

Crowley’s standing in the doorway. His coat and hair are rumpled by the wind, and even with his sunglasses hiding his eyes, his expression is clearly- desperate. Heartbroken. He makes a striking picture, backlit by the winter sun outside, one arm still outstretched from flinging the door directly into the wall. The door slowly swings closed. Crowley takes a very visible breath and stalks across the coffeeshop toward Aziraphale. Some poor hapless freshman who’d been there studying practically throws himself under a table getting out of his way. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, as he approaches Aziraphale’s table. The nickname, coined when Crowley learned that Aziraphale was named for some obscure biblical angel, sounds different now. Crowley’s said it exasperated, said it fond, said it teasing; he’s never said it with so much weight. He drops to his knees next to Aziraphale’s chair. “Angel,” he repeats, sounding genuinely gutted, “How could you do this to me?” For a moment, Aziraphale wonders what he could possibly have done to hurt Crowley so badly. Then he notices the smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I thought…” Crowley continues, “I thought we had something special.” His expression becomes absolutely devious, and he mouths, “Play along.”

Aziraphale glances over at Gabriel, who’s staring at the scene playing out in front of him with a mixture of shock and horror. _He’s taking Crowley seriously_ , Aziraphale realizes. Whether that’s because Crowley’s turned just enough away from him that he can’t actually see the expression on his face, or because Gabriel thinks the theater is a waste of time and may never have seen a person act in his life, Aziraphale can’t tell. He looks back to Crowley, who smiles at him. It’s a familiar smile. It’s a smile that says “I know this is a bad idea, but c’mon, it’ll be fun.” He’s been making that face at Aziraphale for going on seven years now, and Aziraphale’s always been powerless to resist.

So even though he knows this idea will only make his long-term, “I’m in love with Crowley” problem worse, it’s horrendously easy for him to throw on an upset, but tentatively hopeful expression and whisper, “You mean it?” 

Crowley looks mildly stunned. Aziraphale can’t mouth ‘what’d you expect me to do, here?’ at him without Gabriel noticing, so he settles for committing to the bit for all he’s worth and hoping Crowley gets the point. “I’d- I’d hoped-” he continues, letting his voice shake a little, “But then you just _left_ and I-”

“I didn’t want to! I thought- I thought you wanted me to leave,” Crowley cuts in. He seems to have taken Aziraphale’s response as a challenge, if the crack in his voice and the watery edge to the word ‘leave’ are anything to go by. 

“Never,” Aziraphale says. He reaches a hand out to Crowley, intending to help him to his feet. His current position on the floor cannot possibly be comfortable, even discounting the sheer amount of grime he must be kneeling in, and Aziraphale thinks it’s a testament to his acting skills that he’s staring dreamily up at Aziraphale despite that. 

Crowley takes his hand, and instead of standing, pulls himself into Aziraphale’s lap, sitting so that they’re nose-to-nose. “Well,” he says quietly, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek in one hand, “Just so you know.” His voice is suddenly far too sincere, far too intimate, and Aziraphale is in agony. “I never want you to leave, either.” 

Aziraphale has to look away from him, because if he keeps staring he’s going to blurt out something like ‘I meant that for real, I never want you to leave’ and then Crowley will stop staring at him like he’s the most important thing in the world. He’ll clumsily tell Aziraphale that he doesn’t feel the same way, and he’ll be so endearingly awkward about it that Aziraphale won’t even be able to feel upset, at least in the moment. 

For once in Aziraphale’s life, fate is with him; as he’s avoiding looking directly at Crowley, he realizes that the coffeeshop, and the street outside, are completely void of arrogant religious studies majors named Gabriel. He’d been so wrapped up in- well, in staring at Crowley- that he hadn’t even noticed him leave. “I think he’s gone now,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley holds their position- one hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, noses touching, staring deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes- for one more, torturous second. “You’re sure?” he asks, lips barely moving. Aziraphale nods. “Holy fuck,” Crowley says at normal volume. He slumps onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, with both of his arms thrown carelessly around Aziraphale’s neck. “I cannot believe that worked.”

This is- worse, this is infinitely worse, Crowley’s head is on his shoulder because apparently he wants it there, not for some ulterior motive, and Crowley is still sitting in his lap- “That was your plan!” Aziraphale manages, proud of how normal his voice sounds.

“Did I look like I had a plan? I never have a plan!” Crowley lifts his head.[3] “Name one point, in my life, at which I have had a plan.” He seems deeply offended. 

“There was that time with Ligur…” Aziraphale offers.

“That was two-thirds of a plan at best!” Crowley gestures wildly with one arm in a way that could indicate… anything, really, and nearly tumbles out of Aziraphale’s lap in the process. Without thinking about what he’s doing, Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist to keep him steady.

Crowley goes statue-still, expect for his hands, which are suddenly clutching at the back of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Crowley…” Aziraphale begins, and casts about frantically for something to say that isn’t ‘sorry, didn’t mean to overstep, it’s just I was really afraid you were going to fall and break your arm again and also I’m completely in love with you.’

“We should probably get out of here, we just caused a massive scene,” Aziraphale manages.

Crowley slumps back against the table. A look of hurt passes over his face, so quickly that Aziraphale barely has a chance to notice it. “You’re probably right,” he says, swinging himself out of Aziraphale’s lap. He flashes Aziraphale an approximation of a smile and fidgets with his sunglasses. “I’m going to get a coffee before we head out, you want anything?” he asks. Aziraphale shakes his head. Crowley saunters over to the counter.

Aziraphale is left with his lukewarm cocoa and a pile of things to worry about. Crowley’s upset about something. Crowley may have figured out that Aziraphale has feelings for him. Gabriel’s definitely going to ask him about his relationship with Crowley next time they have class together, and Aziraphale’s going to have to lie, and the longer he has to pretend he’s dating Crowley the more he’s going to break his own heart. And yet he’s desperately hoping Gabriel will want proof of their relationship, or something, so maybe he’ll have an excuse to ask Crowley to try this again. 

He chokes down the last of his cocoa as Crowley pays, and they leave the coffeeshop together. It’s beginning to snow, which makes Crowley grumble and duck his head so deeply into the collar of his coat that only his sunglasses and hair are visible. “Are you going back to meet with that project group?” Aziraphale asks, once they’ve been walking for a few minutes and the silence has shifted from ‘companionable’ to ‘awkward.’ 

“Nah. I told them my roommate was having an emergency, so I may as well milk that excuse for all it’s worth. If I have to deal with Hastur doing all the math for this thing by hand, and then accusing me of cheating when I get my work done quicker than he does, because I live in the 21st century and know what a calculator is, I might set something on fire.” 

“That would be bad,” Aziraphale says seriously.

Crowley grins, and adds, “Did you have somewhere you needed to be? I’ll walk you there. Or drive you.”

“My plan for the afternoon was that date, and you saw how well that turned out. I’m just going back to the apartment.”

“Oh. Right,” Crowley says. The silence returns with a vengeance. Aziraphale looks over at him out of the corner of his eye. Having known Crowley for almost seven years, Aziraphale has become adept at deciphering his facial expressions. It’s not a difficult task, despite the fact that Crowley wears sunglasses whenever he can get away with it.[4] Crowley’s generally a very expressive person, and Aziraphale’s learned to read around the sunglasses. Currently, Crowley’s keeping his face determinedly still, which he only does when he’s upset about something and trying very hard to pretend that he isn’t. It’s the most convincing version of That Face, too, the one that took Aziraphale a good two years to see through. _Is it something I said? Did something go wrong that I don’t know about?_ Aziraphale wonders. _I should say something, I should-_

“I really do appreciate the-” he begins. 

At the same time, Crowley says, “Look, I’m sorry-” 

They both stop speaking and glance at each other. It’s awkward in a way they haven’t been since the month after they met, which only adds to Aziraphale’s suspicion that something is off about this whole interaction. “Seriously, thank you for the rescue,” he says, when a few seconds pass and Crowley doesn’t speak.

“I’m pretty sure leaving someone alone in a room with Gabriel at his most pompous is a war crime, I couldn’t subject you to-” Crowley brings himself up short. “Sorry, I mean- I’m sure he can’t be all bad, if you-” he continues. The forced politeness in his tone is as uncomfortably out of place as a working microwave in an abandoned fourteenth-century crypt. 

“I shouldn’t have agreed to go out with him,” Aziraphale admits, before Crowley strains something pretending not to hate Gabriel. “I don’t know why he asked me in the first place, anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley says tightly. He starts walking slightly faster, giving the sidewalk in front of him the sort of angry stare he normally reserves for his plants. “You’re the kindest person I know, and you’re brilliant, and- anyone would be lucky to have you, and Gabriel’s a fucking idiot if he can’t see that.”

“Crowley.” Without thinking about it, Aziraphale reaches out and catches the sleeve of Crowley’s coat in one hand. Crowley immediately jerks to a halt. “I could not care less what Gabriel thinks of me.”

“Oh. Good. You shouldn’t,” Crowley says uncomfortably. He’s still frozen mid-step, staring determinedly at his feet, but he hasn’t pulled his arm from Aziraphale’s hand. 

“I didn’t want to date him in the first place.”

“Oh, thank God!” Crowley shouts. He turns to Aziraphale, flinging his entire coffee cup into a pile of slush in his excitement. “I thought we were on the same page there- About him being a pompous ass, I mean- But then you agreed to go out with him- And I thought I was just going to have to put up with him, for your sake- Why did you go on a date with him, then?” 

Aziraphale does not know how to answer that question, not with the reason himself standing in front of him. “I guess I just… I thought I should date somebody. Gabriel asked.”

“And you deserve better than _him_. You deserve- um.” Crowley suddenly becomes very preoccupied by his slushy coffee.

“You were going to say ‘Hastur’ or somebody, weren’t you?” Aziraphale asks, mostly to see Crowley’s reaction to the idea of Hastur dating Aziraphale.

“No!” Crowley says. He’s outright offended. Aziraphale had expected disgust or horror or, quite possibly, Crowley threatening never to speak to him again for putting that mental image in his head. He had not expected to be taken seriously. Before he can clarify, Crowley continues. “I was going to say, everything.” 

His voice goes soft, the way it had when he was pretending to be in love with Aziraphale in the coffeeshop. His expression, too, is a more muted version of the lovelorn one he’d been wearing earlier. He takes a step closer to Aziraphale. There’s still space between them, but not much; Aziraphale has to tilt his head up a little to look at him. He reaches out a hand like he’s going to brush some snow from Aziraphale’s coat but abandons the gesture halfway through. Aziraphale waits for him to laugh the moment off, but he doesn’t. “Aziraphale,” he says, in the same tone, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head so that Aziraphale can see his eyes, “I know this may not hold much weight, coming from me, but you’re wonderful, and you deserve someone who appreciates that.”

 _He’s serious about this,_ Aziraphale realizes. _This isn’t like Eden’s, he’s saying it for me, not an audience. He’s serious about it. He’s serious about-_ His train of thought catches on part of Crowley’s phrasing and screeches to a halt. 

“What do you mean, ‘coming from you’?” he asks. “You’re my friend, if anything I value your opinion more than most people’s.”

“Thanks,” Crowley says uncomfortably. 

“Why would you think I wouldn’t.”

“Come on. I’ve been in love with you since we were fourteen, I think I’m a little biased here.” Crowley says.

It is not an overwrought confession. He sounds completely nonchalant, if slightly upset at being forced to bring up the subject.

Aziraphale is dumbstruck.

Aziraphale is wondering if Gabriel bored him into a coma and he’s hallucinating this whole interaction. 

He thinks that must be the case, because it makes a great deal more sense than Crowley randomly admitting he’s in love with him.

Or maybe he heard him wrong.

Or maybe he heard exactly right and he’s been gaping silently at Crowley for over a minute now.

“You didn’t know,” Crowley says quietly. Aziraphale shakes his head. “How did you not- It’s not like I’ve been subtle!” he adds frantically. “I practically told you- Oh.” A look of dejected realization crosses his face. “You _didn’t_ know,” he repeats, like the idea’s finally set in. “I am so sorry,” he adds, twice as frantic as before and about a billion times more anxious. “I didn’t mean to- I mean, um- sorry to tell you like this I- I never wanted to- I thought you knew, and you’d tell me if I overstepped-”

Aziraphale barely hears him. The phrase _I've been in love with you since we were fourteen_ keeps looping through his head. He'd be content to stay in this moment forever, swept up in romantic daydreams and the knowledge that Crowley loves him, were it not for the fact that Crowley himself is still trying to explain, tensed up like he's expecting Aziraphale to hit him. His wary expression shatters Aziraphale's heart. He would give up any number of things to make sure Crowley never looks like that again, make sure that Crowley knows Aziraphale cares for him just as much.

Slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants, Aziraphale moves his hand down the sleeve of Crowley’s jacket and tangles their fingers together. Crowley stops his anxious monologue mid-word and stares down at their entwined hands. 

“Are your hands cold?” he asks hoarsely. “I can give you my gloves.”

“You’re the reason I agreed to go on that date,” Aziraphale says. In retrospect, this isn’t the best opening to a dramatic declaration of love, but the words are already out of his mouth, and Crowley is already staring at him like he confessed to murdering Mary Poppins. “I thought,” Aziraphale adds, as quickly as he can, “That if I just went out on a date, no matter who I went with, it might be a step to getting over you. But it didn’t work because I realized, as I was sitting there, that there’s no one I’d rather be with.”

Crowley looks a bit like he’s been hit over the head with a shovel. “Could you say that again, maybe?” he finally asks, “Slower? Because I’m pretty sure I misinterpreted.”

“I’ve liked you for years now and I thought going on a date would help me get over you,” Aziraphale tries.

Just when Aziraphale’s beginning to think he misjudged the whole situation, and he should let go of Crowley’s hand and apologize before it gets even more awkward, Crowley speaks. “Did it work?” he asks. There’s still an anxious edge to his voice, but his tone is teasing. He’s giving Aziraphale a cautious smile.

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale confesses, in a similar tone. “It was _Gabriel_.”

“Good,” Crowley says, and leans in and kisses him.

By all rights it should not be a good kiss. Crowley is still practically vibrating with anxious energy, Aziraphale is about to collapse in relief, and midway through the kiss Crowley’s sunglasses slip back down over his nose. But somehow, it works. They balance each other out. Crowley’s restless energy melts away. Aziraphale lets himself lean into Crowley’s embrace. The snow drifts down gently around them, the street is warmly lit despite the cloud cover, as though the universe is trying to make up for previous mistakes by giving them a romance novel background. 

Eventually, Aziraphale pulls away. Crowley looks approximately how he feels: slightly dazed but incredibly happy. He brushes a strand of hair out of Crowley’s face and is rewarded with the sight of Crowley blushing furiously. He follows that up by giving Crowley a quick peck on the lips, relishing in the fact that he can do that now, if he wants, relishing even more in the tiny, pleased sound Crowley makes when their lips meet. 

This time, when he pulls out of the kiss, Crowley follows him, kissing him more deeply, causing the two of them to stumble a few steps and nearly bump into a streetlight. “You’re going to kill me, angel,” he whispers, his lips brushing Aziraphale’s as he speaks. Aziraphale is fairly certain the opposite is the case, but he is too flustered to find the words to properly make his point. “Also,” Crowley continues, in the same tone of voice, “I’d love to keep doing this, but it’s absolutely freezing out here and my toes are going numb.”

He grabs Aziraphale's hand and starts pulling him in the direction of their apartment, and Aziraphale gladly follows. It is an infinitely better end to the day than he’d expected not long ago. “We should get dinner together tonight,” Aziraphale says as they walk, struck by a way he can further improve the day.

“We… do that most nights,” Crowley says. He doesn't seem to get the subtext behind Aziraphale's suggestion, which Aziraphale finds both adorable and mildly exasperating.

“No, I mean like a date,” Aziraphale replies. His tone, described in seven words, is, 'you're an idiot and I love you.' 

“You mean you haven’t had your share of terrible dates for one day?” Crowley grins. 

“Oh no, I have.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “I know this one will be better.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1To hear Gabriel tell it, said internship for a minor politician is the only thing keeping the country from crumbling into chaos. Somehow, Aziraphale doubts it.[Return]  
> 2Pros: probably won’t be misconstrued. Probably. Cons: a waste of perfectly good cocoa.[Return]  
> 3A terrible relief.[Return]  
> 4Crowley would rather have people stare at his sunglasses than his eyes, which have oddly-shaped pupils and are an almost yellowy shade of hazel. Aziraphale does not understand the logic there, especially since wearing sunglasses constantly means that Crowley is forever 1. Losing sunglasses and 2. Walking into things in dark rooms, but Crowley replies that HE’S not the one being stared at and Aziraphale has to admit he has a point. [Return]
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://just-j-really.tumblr.com/) where, much like in real life, I spend 90% of my time talking about Good Omens.


End file.
